cigarette smoke.

you're atychiphobic, aren't you? (god what a mess)

sometimes I go away in my own head, it's kind of like disassociation but I'm away of everything, I'm in control, but I don't want to be―
I want to blank out, because the copper clinging to my saliva makes me think I've spit blood into my mouth when it's just the nerves; sorry I'm scared of everything.

But that's counterproductive, because I'm not in control anyway. It's not a systematic error either- or, not a big one, at least. I'm just kind of here, someone who likes to put in effort but doesn't; idiot who catches on quick; I'm an asshole with a heart, if you'd be so kind to say (though, you wouldn't. not to my face―not if you've lived with me and my touch starved head―don't say I'm nice, because I'm a teenager looking for validation - I'm a white-kid and I really should be happier about that but sometimes it stings they when people look at me all they'll do is be disappointed; I'm not a revolutionary, I'm barely a kid- not an adult- with a messed up sleep schedule and two little sisters sisters).

It's waysided. It's falling apart under my fleshy hands, baby pink and uncalloused no matter how much a write or draw or scratch at them (i used to let my peeper cuts bleed out of morbid amusement because i liked seeing the blood but hated the pain that came with it). Maybe this is just a phase, my mother can't say that because I've already told her I'll get over it one day; I'm in high school during my equivalent of the end of the world and all my friends are moving away. What a disaster huh?

(God, it feels like second grade for the third time, because I got held back―idiot that catches on quick, again [FAILURE]).. my hands don't really shake when I'm anxious. They don't shake when I'm cold either; it's always my chest. Trembling.

I hate it.

I hate a lot of things; I think I just about hate everything that's associated with me―i wanted to talk to my therapist about it, but my mom wanted us to talk about how she wants me to go into an art program and I don't (that's a little funny isn't it? We argue so much; and maybe if she gave me a minute to think about the fact that I'll have to work through everything on my own one day - that she'll never be in control forever - maybe then I'd be able to finally sleep at 12:00AM instead of waiting for my mind to get accustom to my sister's snoring and going through the worst case scenario until I black out (blank out, hopefully).)

(The thoughts would have kept me up anyway)

I've picked up my grades at the loss of my sanity (but that was threadbare anyhow, so I won't stick to it; sorry for whoever is wasting their time trying to figure out what's going on in my head, not even I can figure it out and I live here―)

I think I'm lucky enough to have a brain, but unlucky in the way that I don't know how to use it. Somethings just don't fit or maybe I've spent too much time looking at my asymmetrical face in the mirror.

It's kind of repetitive, though. Isn't it?

No matter, it's 11:12AM, right before noon and I'm contemplating my existence instead of turning in the math assignment i just finished (i cried over there last one; my chest shook and i kept slowing my breathes, I've only ever had a panic attack once and it lasted a half-an-hour―i wasn't even blanked out, my chest was shaking though. It was summertime).

Sometimes I think about ropes, because I'm weird like that - not for suicide reasons - but I just want to fiddle with rope under my hands, to avoid picking on my finger's. I got rubber thimbles but they don't work that well. (God I'm a waste of money, aren't I? Don't answer that, let me wallow; I'll get out of this void one day).

(It's 11:17AM now, make a wish for whatever reason; who cares what time it is?)

11:18AM: THIS TAKES TOO LONG. I want to be right, but I'm probably wrong - I have to take a science test that was due two days ago but I can't stand the way it's formatted, it makes my head scream, isn't that strange? The questions are divided like a state exam (if you've been to new york―state, not city. Manhattan's an hour away and I like listening to the train at night)

I'm supposed to be in class, but the teacher never posted a link; I'm not going to ask for one.

It's 11:27AM and I'm a teenager made from broken porcelain cups; the one my sister dropped on the floor, or the two bowls they cracked (I loved those bowls, they were blue instead of white and I loved the way they felt under my fleshy hands).

Not to be dramatic or anything (see: or anything, I mean you be dramatic, I'm very dramatic, I like attention, but I hate being seen), but I feel like a failure. Not in the worst wats (it was IN THE WORST WAYS back in elementary school [i don't think it's normal for a fifth grader to fantasize throwing themselves off a roof or sleeping forever, but I've always had a morbid fascination] when my best friend―new best friend, my old one moved to Florida, I can't remember her face but her hair was black and long and her name was hebrew through and through so much that I can't spell it with english letters (aleph bet gimmel daled hey vuv zein Πet tet nune―) ). But it's backward.

yaw siht era sdrow ehT

It's funny looking, isn't it?

(I never want to look at tephilim again, or a chumish or a cidur or tzitsus even though I'm not even allowed to use two of those (double standard, ladies and gents))

11:38AM
I'm handing in my maths assignment now.